


His Angel

by ParadoxinMotion



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Character Death, M/M, Unhealthy fic, serial killer!stiles, sociopath!Derek
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-10
Updated: 2014-12-10
Packaged: 2018-02-28 20:54:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 923
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2746691
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ParadoxinMotion/pseuds/ParadoxinMotion
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It would never cease to amaze him how Stiles looked with blood on his hands, and how much he wanted to touch him fresh after a kill.</p>
            </blockquote>





	His Angel

**For Shaandiin.**

**-=-=-=-=-**

Derek liked to call him his Angel. It wouldn’t have been a fitting name if there hadn’t been so much history between the two of them, and things that only the two of them could understand. And, in truth, he _was_ Derek’s Angel. His beautiful, perfect angel of death who did things that Derek could only dream of. The irony was beautiful in its symmetry; the weaker human could do more than the alpha wolf. It would never cease to amaze him how Stiles looked with blood on his hands, and how much he wanted to touch him fresh after a kill.

The only thing barring the two of them at the moment was the strange fact that Stiles was unaware that Derek knew who he was. Not the gawky teenage boy who had been possessed by a deadly playful spirit too long ago. Sometimes, it occurred to Derek that he missed him. Stiles missed the disease that had taken over his brain, and if he could, and if the creature was not locked away where he could never reach it, Derek would have brought the Nogitsune back to him.

Once, he’d asked Stiles what it had been like.

“It was like dancing,” Stiles had answered after a long moment of silence. “He was there, and I was there, and it wasn’t so much about who was _leading_ the dance as who was setting the rhythm.”

Derek hadn’t understood at the time. He liked to think he did now.

“I couldn’t love him, you understand,” Stiles said suddenly, surprising him. Stiles rarely opened up about his possession. “He was clever, and brilliant, and so incredibly old. I think he was getting exhausted, to tell you the truth. He would have burnt out sometime before I was finished, and I would have been left with a hole I would have no idea how to fill.”

Derek nodded, trying to understand. He wanted Stiles to know how very hard he tried to understand.

“I didn’t want to get emotionally attached to him,” Stiles finished, taking a swig of his coke bottle. Derek thought idly how long and pale his throat was as he tipped it up to swallow.

“I understand,” Derek said, because he thought he did. He could never tell for sure.

“No, you don’t,” Stiles smiled.

Derek didn’t have the heart to argue with him.

-=-=-=-=-

Stiles found out a week later. Derek was glad there wasn’t any secrecy between them anymore. He just wished the way had been a little different.

It hadn’t been the hunters’ faults. It was just their loss for underestimating Stiles, because _everyone_ underestimated Stiles and only Derek knew how much he both loved and hated that.

He could sense Stiles’ heartbeat from exactly one mile away. He’d practiced and practiced with him, Stiles increasing the distance a little more each time and then noting it down. Stiles usually had a fast heartbeat; 125 beats a minute. It almost never went up, or down, and Derek was okay with that.

Except that now, it was slowing.

Stiles’ heartbeat was _slowing_ down.

Derek ran.

The hunters were already dead when he found Stiles, which disappointed him to no end. He always found him just _after_ the fucking kill. He concentrated on the coppery smell of blood and breathed through his nose.

Stiles was standing over the two men, the knife that ended their lives still held in his hand. Somehow even Stiles made that look delicate, like the knife had a life of its own and Stiles was protecting it.

Derek loved him.

Stiles hummed softly as he dropped to his knees, checking for pulses, inhaling the scent of his victory in their blood. Then he wiped the knife off with the cloth of the older man’s jacket and stood up.

Derek opened the door and went inside.

For a few moments Stiles didn’t actually speak to him, just stood looking at him with calm detachment. His brown eyes were the colour of honey in the light of the room.

“Why do you never mark them?” Derek inquired. “No one will see your work.”

Stiles shrugged, the knife still gripped in his slender fingers. But somehow Derek knew that knife was not meant for him. Not now, not ever. “Maybe I will someday. But I worry about my technique. It has to be perfect.”

“You’re already perfect,” Derek said calmly.

Stiles didn’t answer.

Derek helped him bury both bodies a ways from the house.

“Will you tell anyone?” Stiles inquired, wiping a smudge of dirt from his forehead.

“Of course not,” Derek answered. Of course he wouldn’t tell anyone; this was special.

Stiles nodded. “Alright.”

Derek flashed him a brief smile, listening to Stiles’ steady heartbeat as he picked up his shovel. It was special. Stiles wasn’t just anyone, killer or not. He _belonged_ to Derek; there was a sense of both ownership and owning intricately woven throughout their very senses. He loved it, he never forgot it…he would kill for it.

He would kill for Stiles again, and again, and again.

Maybe one day the coppery scent of blood wouldn’t remind him of burning houses and agonised screams. Perhaps in time he would grow to love the thrill of taking someone’s life, just as Stiles had. The crunch of bones under his hands, the gleam in his mate’s eyes as he stood up, trademark knife loose in his hand. But the one thing he was certain of, right _here,_ right _now_ -

Stiles was his Angel.

Forever.


End file.
